


In Which Being Beaten Up Might Not Be Such A Bad Thing

by Criminal_Blinds (IronicAppreciation)



Series: The Blood of the Bond is Thicker Than the Water of the Womb [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Actually please read it, But the rating n warning are just to be safe, Gen, I Crave Attention, It's bad, It's really not that violent, Maybe - Freeform, at least I don't think so, don't read it, fuck i don't know, sorry - Freeform, whump I guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronicAppreciation/pseuds/Criminal_Blinds
Summary: "Are you okay?""I have a sprained wrist, bleeding lip, and potentially fractured ribs. I do NOT have any missing appendages or damaged arteries. I think I'll live."Teen AU-Spencer gets beaten and Derek is a sweetheart





	

It wasn’t the most _conventional_ of meetings, Spencer acknowledged as he bit into a euphorically soft, warm cookie, which he was _impeccably certain_ was concocted of an _orgasmically tangible bliss_ , and not just flour, eggs, and sugar, as Penelope so dubiously claimed. _Then again_ , he pondered pleasantly as the crumbling of _sheer fucking heaven_ patroned his tongue,  _nothing he ever did was all that conventional_.

   
He had been walking, quite orthodoxically, if you asked him, in the direction of his next class, consumed by the reverberating solitude of his own, lonely company, as other, less deplorably _dull_ and _eccentric_ students chattered loudly, their aviating laughter ricocheting throughout the halls. Worn, daunting metal lockers lined the contemptibly narrow passages, and Spencer thanked his inconspicuously small and skinny frame for being able to navigate effectively through the imminent onslaught of bubbly teenagers. He successfully evaded the sea of the dreadfully sinister Sirens (his admittedly nerdy identification of the substantially brainless popular girls) and grimaced silently to himself as he approached the bombarding, unavoidable territory of Scylla and Charybdis.  
More commonly known as _dumb jocks_ and _dumber upperclassmen_.   
It was bad enough that he was an abnormally minuscule 13-year-old in the midst of perilously hormonal and detrimentally confused freshmen, but add to his misery a grotesquely moody and _perpetually angst-ridden_ group of almost-adults undergoing the most immense of existential crises and hankering for any outlet for their emotional turmoils, and Spencer was at least 99.9999% sure he had no chance of surviving this year.   
Still, he fostered some artificial, unfathomably ignorant courage and apprehensively pushed wavy brunette bangs behind his ear, lowering his head and attempting to appear even smaller than normal.   
And, just like _every other fucking day_ , his fruitless efforts did nothing to hinder the inevitable.  
He believed that the first dick to notice him in his peripheral vision was some junior named _Josh_ or _James_ , with abhorrent floppy dark hair that shrouded his slightly perturbing translucent eyes, and skin that he’d heard being described by his classmates as “ _paler than snow white’s unkempt vagina_ ”. Fortunately, Spencer was spared the exalting misery of further observing his wretched features, as all of JoshJames’s weight suddenly collided with his shoulder, shoveling him brutally into a locker as his arm bent forwards involuntarily in front of him, impacting the metal door with a resounding clang and a vicious _crack_.  
Mind whirring raucously as he endeavored to ignore the snap of surging pain coursing through his twisted arm, he groaned, more inconvenienced than he was _hurt_ as he stole a glance at the watch loosely adorning his knobby wrist.   
_Five minutes til next period. That gives the assholes 7.5 minutes to get bored. That gives me 1.5 minutes to clean up the blood and conjure an adequate excuse and-_  
He winced as he was tugged backwards by a thwarting grip on his hair, then shoved into the door with a despairing _shatter_ , his face hitting the locker twice, then three times.  
 _-thank FUCK for contact lenses,_ he thought grimly while absently evaluating the novel hue of red smearing the pale gray, grisly wilting metal before him. _They ought to get that repaired_ , he mused before a sharp elbow in the small of his back caused him to arch forward, whimpering out as he dropped limply to the floor, the dull ache that his scrawny body had grown so concerningly accustomed to awakening with a ruthless bang.  
One, two, three, six, twelve, _eighteen_ vehement kicks to the ribs later, courtesy of a multitude of tattered sneakers and boots that he didn’t receive the chance to formally identify, Spencer’s frail form shuddered and curled pathetically in on itself, dismissing any and all other thoughts as his brain was ingested entirely with each ruthless spark of pain that crackled through his lungs and churned in his stomach, small stints of fire ferociously assaulting his sides as feet larger than his face beat afflicting gasps and stinging pounds through his torso.  
Which was perhaps why he didn’t notice the abounding yell that didn’t belong to the crowd of giddy, gleefully aggressive boys atop him. Why he didn’t notice the shouts of protest as one by one they were shooed and expelled from his withering body, and why he didn’t receive the complacent satisfaction of JoshJames being smacked away by a boy who couldn’t have been any older than 15, with solicitous, wide brown eyes that stared limitlessly down at him, until Spencer experienced a discomfort completely separate from the consistently reawakening bruises and swelling lacerations that littered his skin.  
He squirmed until he was gazing upwards at the intruder, restoring his breath long enough to shudder out a lilted, broken _“Shouldn’t you be in class?”_  
The Other Boy blinked at him incomprehensibly, and Spencer would’ve rolled his eyes if his entire body didn’t _revolt in striking anguish_ at the mere thought of it.   
Other Boy finally appeared to recognize his objective _uselessness_ as Spencer futilely attempted to pick himself up off the floor, managing only to crumple back down and shrivel susceptibly, emitting a heartrending yelp as he fell against the tile. Other Boy halted momentarily before kneeling and extending an arm nurturingly, guilt stabbing him mirthlessly when the tiny figure sprawled before him recoiled at his touch. Retracting the offending hand, he coughed and spoke as amicably as he could.   
“Do you, uh, need any help?”  
He scratched awkwardly at the smooth top of his scalp, and Spencer actively queried why he was still _there_ , and not dashing instantaneously to a class that was infinitely more interesting and _important_ than he was.   
Instead of voicing aloud his concerns regarding Other Boy’s blatantly discombobulated priorities, he cleared his throat and squeaked, “I've been better,” pausing briefly before amending, “I've also been worse.”  
Unsure about what exactly to do with this unsolicited and frankly unwarranted new information, Other Boy ventured again to aid him up, grinning benevolently when Spencer (somewhat begrudgingly) accepted his hand with a minimal but grateful glance in his direction.   
It required more than just stubborn determination and exhibitionary pride to avoid crying out when he unfurled the agonized, unwilling muscles in his stomach, the resulting pangs of twisting pain proving to be practically unstiflable.   
His tragic undertake at discretion must’ve been unsuccessful, Spencer noted, as Other Boy’s eyes widened harrowingly at his inadvertent moan and serendipitous _wince_.   
“Shit-are, are you okay?”  
Too pitiable and excruciated to shoot him a snarky glare and snappy retort, Spencer let himself fall against the cool metal of the barely bloodstained locker, and remarked offhandedly.   
“I've got a bleeding lip, sprained wrist, and possibly fractured ribs. I do NOT, however, appear to have lost any appendages or damaged any arteries. I think I'll live.”  
Other Boy opened and shut his mouth obstructingly, and it occurred to Spencer that he ought to have a proper name, _especially_ considering he'd been courteous enough to remain even after that insatiable whirlwind of a response.   
“I'm, umm, Spencer. Yeah, yes, I'm, my name is Spencer Reid, and you, you're, uh-”  
His objective promptly slipped his mind as he astutely recalled how _bad_ he was at the socializing aspect of human existence, and he licked his dry lips in trepidation, grimacing as the metallic taste of blood hit his tongue.   
“Derek.”  
Inconceivably thankful that Other Boy- _Derek_ -had taken lead of the ostentatious interaction, he smiled fragilely again, muttering a stinted “thank you” before his breath hitched and he _coughed_ , lungs and chest burning as the domineering ache overcame his midsection obnoxiously.   
It was only after the spurt of pain subsided that he noticed the arm slung around his shoulders, snug and warm and _surprisingly comfortable_.   
“Hey! Hey! _Spencer_! Yeah, ok, you need to go to the nurse. Cmon.”  
Half lidded eyes struck open spontaneously, and Spencer _flailed_ , the strength of the embrace suddenly feeling more like a chokehold. Derek reversed, appearing disconcerted as he watched the smaller boy shiver, and Spencer found himself _missing_ the disorienting addendum of weight burdening his narrow shoulders.   
“I-I I I appreciate the concern, but, but I'm, I'm fine, I don't, don't need, I-you don't have to take me to the umm, the nurse, I uh, I'll be fine, I'm…”  
Appearing thoroughly _un_ convinced, Derek adjusted slightly, his hand resting on Spencer’s waist gently enough to console him without _hurting_ him, and he let out a soft chuckle as the kid’s insensible rambling ceased with a squeak.   
“Alright, pretty boy, seeing as you don't wanna ensure that your _bones_ aren't _busted_ , I’m going to take you to see a good friend of mine instead.”  
And for the first time in his acutely short life, Spencer couldn't determine whether or not that was a threat.   
Derek continued, clarifying.   
“She's not a _certified doctor_ or anything, but if you ask me, her baked goods can mend anything just about as good as drugs can.”  
Spencer grumbled inaudibly that, while sweets _did_ release endorphins that occasionally mimicked the physically composing effects of narcotics, they didn't quite adequately compensate for the _healing_ aspects of medication. His speech arose as incoherent gibberish, however, as he discovered that his face was buried in Derek’s shoulder, the remainder of his deterringly limp body being half dragged, half carried, and discernibly _not_ beaten within the boundaries of complete collapse. And for the first time _ever_ in the direct vicinity of another person, Spencer felt oddly, unprecedentedly safe.

  
Fast forward twenty-five minutes, and the boy was sitting pleasantly on a firm wooden chair, bandaged amateurly, having completely forgotten about his last class, and indulging in cookies that he now agreed indubitably were _beyond sufficient_ at mending anything as well as drugs could. _Better, even_ , he felt, although he subliminally acknowledged that his sentiment could be biased by the unpredicted discovery of two _wonderfully compassionate_ individuals named Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia. _Individuals whom_ , he deduced with a gracious smile, _were absolutely worth being beaten to a bloody pulp to meet_.

**Author's Note:**

> WOOOO HOOOOOO IM ACTUALLY CONTINUING THIS SERIES WHY AM I DOING THIS FUCK THIS IS A MISTAKE


End file.
